Armed with an English degree and a terrible memory, my thoughts on books had to go somewhere.

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“As he rang the doorbell, he wondered what he should feel, or more important, what he did feel but as usual he could not determine… he would have to wait until he could safely recall this scene in memory; only in the future could he ever discover what, if anything, he had felt: he existed almost entirely in recollection, a peculiarity of considerable value to him as a writer, though disastrous in his life since no event could touch him until it was safely past, until alone in bed at night he could experience in a rush all the emotions that he had been unable to fell at the appropriate time; then he would writhe, knowing it was again too late to act.”